When Nasser commissioned the construction of the Aswan High Dam—a project pivotal to his legacy of modernising Egypt—most of the migrant builders who came from Upper Egypt were farmers who were unfamiliar with industrial machinery and faced hazardous work conditions. This week’s Translation Tuesday features a set of epistolary poems that relate the story of this historic project through the correspondences of a migrant worker Hiragy and his wife Fatma. These poems, drawn from the start of Abdel Rahman El-Abnudi’s The Letters of Hiragy al-Qot, were written when the poet lived amongst the labourers in Aswan who came from his village of Abnoud. One of the Arab world’s most respected vernacular writers—a true poet of the people—El-Abnudi’s works are social documents that chronicle the history of Egypt. In Mariam Moustafa’s translation, the emerging language of technological modernity is conjured with sensitivity, and the various registers of labour and longing are given emotional resonance. We are thrilled also to feature an audio clip of El-Abnudi himself reading the first two letters in Arabic—for our readers to appreciate why he too is known as “the sound of Egypt.”
“Abdel Rahman El-Abnudi always emphasized that his poems were meant to be listened to, not just read, and recorded most of his poems. I grew up listening to El-Abnudi reciting The Letters of Hiragy al-Qot, and was unsure how to convey the profound emotions that I hear in his voice to an English-speaking audience. A translator can communicate the meaning of sentences, expressions, and even untranslatable words to their target audience, but how can the emotions heard through the heart and soul be translated? In translating and revising this piece, I wanted English readers to feel and hear his voice, and asked constantly: “If El-Abnudi wrote these poems in English, what would they sound like?” This translation is my way of expressing gratitude to the poet, whose voice attracted me as a kid, enlightened me as a teenager, and kept me connected to my roots as a young woman.”
— Mariam Moustafa
Letter 1
The addressee, the most precious diamond,
The marvelous pearl,
My wife, Fatma Ahmed Abdel Ghafar.
The address, our village of Gabalyat El Far.
This is my first letter to you, my love,
Sent from Aswan where I now work.
If I’d surrendered to the shame of being late,
I wouldn’t have written this letter.
Forgive me, Fatma, for the long wait.
I am sorry, I am ashamed, I am abashed.
It has been two months since you shed your tears.
I still remember how they burned my calming hand.
I promised you then, “Before my train reaches Aswan,
My letter will be in your hands.”
You didn’t believe me, you said:
“You’re such a liar. I know you’ll forget.”
I wish that moment could have lasted longer,
But my friends pulled me inside the train.
Their pull troubled my heart.
A fire raged in my soul as I left you, and our kids, Aziza and Eid.
The train began to move,
My heart plummeted.
I ran to the window and screamed,
“Fatma, take care of Aziza and Eid.”
The train screamed too,
Screeching off as if escaping a fire.
I heard your voice next to me, far away.
“My heart and soul follow you to Aswan, habiby.”
I threw myself inside the train, into the crowd,
And I cried aloud.
Our large village, where we could walk around for a whole day,
Was gone in the blink of an eye.
Forgive me, my love, for being late.
If this letter were a boat,
I would sail down the Nile to reach you.
Finally,
I send to you, to my village, and to my children,
A thousand greetings and salams.
Your husband,
Hiragy.
Letter 2
The address: Aswan.
The addressee: My adored husband, Hiragy al-Qot,
The worker on the Aswan Dam.
I received your letter.
Between its lines your smell and spirit linger.
I hate distances. May lovers never be separated!
For the first time ever, the mailman knocked on my door.
We never had to write letters before, habiby.
When Marzouk, the mailman, called out your name,
He lit a fire in my heart and soul.
As if time had fulfilled its promise and brought you closer.
It took you too long, Hiragy, to write to me,
And you know, I, Fatma, your sweetheart, am alone.
I have no friends or family but you.
How dare you be so late? Don’t you know I can’t wait?
Your letter is the first lamp to brighten the house,
The first glimpse of light after a long dark tunnel.
The house, orphaned, just like your kids, Eid and Aziza.
Your little boy, Eid, already knows the bitter feeling of heartache,
He stays home like an old man who has lost his job.
Eid asks me, “How far is Aswan, Mom?”
He is afraid that you may be angry.
How could you wait two months, you cold-hearted man!
Sixty suns, sixty moons have passed.
If I could get hold of your heart,
I swear I would chop it out and extract the icy veins.
The whole village misses you.
Every single family sends you their best wishes.
May you come back soon.
And may you learn to reply back to me.
And for my part, I will keep writing and hoping to never be apart again.
With love,
Your wife, Fatma Ahmed Abdel Ghafar,
From the village of Gabalyat El Far.
Letter 3
My most precious diamond,
My marvelous pearl,
My wife, Fatma Ahmed Abdel Ghafar.
The address, our village of Gabalyat El Far.
This is my second letter.
Enclosed with my words is a sum of money.
And next Friday, you will receive a package,
Your scarf and a pair of shoes,
And clothes for our kids, Aziza and Eid.
I have been wondering:
Why do kids in our village get new clothes
Only when we celebrate?
Don’t kids need to feel the love of their Papa all year long?
Once we reached Aswan, Fatma,
I felt the earth turning beneath my feet.
This is the first time I’ve left my village.
We went to an office to finish up the paperwork and obtain our IDs.
Oh, my sweetheart, if you could see what I went through.
Hundreds . . . no thousands . . . A sea of workers!
They came from small villages, leaving their families behind.
Their eyes reflected the pain of estrangement.
You know, my love, when a man is away from his family,
He becomes a tree standing alone in the forest.
I felt fear slithering through my cold veins.
We spent the first night in a small, frigid room.
Eyes longing for rest but minds unable to find peace.
I shouted your name; did you hear me?
If it weren’t shameful, I would have taken the first train back home.
Then, I told myself: “Come on, Hiragy!
Why did you come in the first place?
He who fears distances should never have left!
Be strong for your kids . . . Keep going to provide them a good life.”
When I feel scared, I comfort the guys around me.
Anyway Fatma . . . When you get the money, pay the grocer the overdue bills.
The rest of the money should keep the ship moving until I come back.
Oh, my love, when I come back, please,
Don’t let me see through the eyes of my kids that I was away.
I impatiently wait for your letter.
When we write, our letters bring us together.
Your husband,
Hiragy.
Letter 4
The address: Aswan.
The addressee: My adored husband, Hiragy al-Qot,
The worker in the Aswan Dam.
The package is here and the money too.
All we are missing is you.
May you live for many years,
And may your soul always embrace mine,
May your generous hands never be empty.
And may honor and happiness be your companions.
I will distribute the money according to your words.
Don’t worry about us, we’re doing fine, habiby.
Even if, one day, life gets tough,
Receiving your letters would be enough.
Yesterday, when the sun came to rest,
Sheikh Kurashi visited our nest.
He said we need to pay attention to Eid.
He must learn how to write and read.
“Buy him pens, ink, and a writing board.
Educate him so that he can be bold.”
I want him to grow wise and old,
And to be, for us, life’s reward.
What you tell me about Aswan, Hiragy,
Is similar to the stories of One Thousand and One Nights.
Isn’t it a village like ours?
Why do they need all these workers?
Where are the locals? Don’t they work?
And come on, you’re a peasant,
How come you’re now a worker?
At night, Hiragy, I miss you,
Like a caffeine addict who misses her morning coffee.
Yesterday, I spread my arms in the dark and I held you.
No lies, sweetheart, you were next to me.
And with you, my soul became free.
Tell me, Hiragy,
How do you eat? What do you wear?
Where do you sleep? With whom do you live?
Who cooks for you? And who cleans your clothes?
Ahhh Hiragy! Words are not enough!
Well, I will send Eid to learn.
In your next letter please encourage him.
The neighbors and the whole village wish you the best.
They pray for your safe return,
And for the moment when you light our home’s lantern.
With love,
Your wife, Fatma Ahmed Abdel Ghafar,
From the village of Gabalyat El Far.
Letter 5
To my precious pearl,
And the most beautiful diamond,
My wife Fatma Ahmed Abdel Ghafar,
Who lives in our house in Gablyat El Far.
I miss you,
Like a thirsty land longing for water.
Like a heartbroken longing for happiness.
I miss you!
Yesterday,
I was sitting in front of the iron sticks,
And holding a digger in my hands.
Suddenly, I lost sight of my surroundings.
The workers disappeared inside the tunnel we’re digging.
The darkness took away my mind.
Fatma, do you even know what a tunnel is?
Yesterday, I became a migratory bird.
With a wavering wing,
I flew to Gablyat El Far.
I hugged everyone.
My jelebeeya sweeping the roads of the village,
My palms rubbing against the door of the house.
You said, “Who is there?”
I could touch the tears of sadness in your voice.
You hugged me or I hugged you . . .
I don’t even know!
Aziza and Eid were there too.
Running around me, touching my hands and smelling my spirit.
I stayed with you,
We cried and laughed.
That beautiful dream ended,
When I opened my eyes to the digger and the uniform.
The engineer was standing by my side
Maybe for an hour . . . maybe more!
He touched my shoulder, I stood up.
He patted on my back.
We walked together out of the tunnel to the light.
We walked for the whole day.
He asked . . . I said: “Longing!”
He said: “Listen, Hiragy . . .”
Oh Fatma, he talked and talked.
I heard a word and missed hundreds.
He talked about the Aswan Dam.
About the war and the colonizers.
I will tell you more in the following letters.
You think I am selfish for not writing more letters?!
I am not!
But how can I speak my heart in a few words?
As for Eid,
I want him to learn,
And to be able to write and read.
Send him to class.
That goes without question, Fatma!
I received your feteer.
I shared it with the workers.
It was delicious!
No, I didn’t even taste it.
I just watched them eating,
Their eyes told me:
“No one makes feteer better than your lovely Fatma!”
Give my greetings to whoever asks about me,
And my warmest hugs to Aziza and Eid.
Your husband,
Hiragy.
Translated from the Arabic by Mariam Moustafa
Listen to Abdel Rahman El-Abnudi read Letters 1 and 2 in Arabic:
Abdel Rahman El-Abnudi (1938–2015) was an Egyptian poet whose work depicted the history of Egypt and who wrote using the Egyptian dialect rather than in standard Arabic. Admired by different sectors of society regardless of their education or socio-economic status, El-Abnudi was known as the “poet of the people,” and his poems—most of which are read and recorded by him—“the sound of Egypt.” He was also a songwriter, dramatist, and a social critic. Some of his poems that have been translated into English include “Yamna” and “The Prisoners’ Laughter”. Among his most famous works are The Letters of Hiragy al-Qot, which uses the correspondences between Hiragy, a construction worker, and his wife, Fatma to represent the story of the building of the Aswan Dam in the 1960s.
Mariam Moustafa is an Egyptian American with a passion for languages and translation. After graduating from Fordham University with a double major in French Studies and Communication, Mariam started her career by translating into Arabic, The Bilingual Revolution: The Future of Education is in Two Languages, a book by the Education Attaché at the French Embassy and the author, Fabrice Jaumont. She also completed other projects as a freelance translator. Currently, Mariam is pursuing her master’s degree in Translation French/English at the NYU School of Professional Studies. She is the creator of The Tarjuwoman blog that introduces various topics about translation to the general public.
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